


Skinner

by Deiwimin



Series: Bastard's Boys [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Descent into degeneracy, Do feel free to murder me after reading, Look At Your Life Look At Your Choices, May add more unholy tags, Mental Instability, Murder, Other, Read at Your Own Risk, Reference to Rape, Vague underage experimenting, but I don't want to spoil, domestic abuse, this is HERESY, unrequited incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22680631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deiwimin/pseuds/Deiwimin
Summary: She was young and white, he remembered her making movements like a honoured maenad under burning torchlight. His father had gone away and she had her company of five, gone for the woods, but the little one had to follow them into the night. He was the master of the house when the blacksmith was not home. Her pale hair caught the ambience of the moon, making her look like the beautiful faerie he heard about from the storyteller's.
Relationships: Only Woe Becomes This, You wanted romance?, woah - Relationship
Series: Bastard's Boys [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631563
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	Skinner

**Author's Note:**

> I myself, am not entirely set on the meaning of this.

“You faithless cow, these aren’t the gods you worship. You pray to the hells.” Skinner flinched as he watched the beating. “Going around the stone with Jen and Lhora. Wait until their husbands hear of their whoring about.” Skinner then understood, what mama did was bad. She shouldn’t have gone outside, to dance. Maybe that’s why they were so quiet. They knew they were doing wrong. His father never began with welting, he had seen men japing about it, so he assumed this is what you did. But the blacksmith kicked and used fists. “Where’s your brother now, you think he would defend a whore like you?” She did not cry when he smashed her blackened blue face on the wall. Not when it stained her olive skirts and she was left alone.

To Skinner mama was still the most beautiful. Even when she was puffy and bruised, he held a love he couldn't hold. When his father did not see, she would hold his hand and whisper promises of pear pie and plums from the market. Sometimes she would take him unto her breast if he had worried to her fears. It would be mostly for fights with the other boys, but he had the upper hand on Damon, so he told her not to worry often. When he became more thinking, sometimes Skinner felt alone. He made sure to brawl more and drink, so she would hold him again. His father took him to work everyday, taught him what was what. Soon he knew to make his own links and work the instruments.

He eventually became a rowdy one, taunting other children, intimidating them. Learning to choose his company. He once cut a little girl who told on them, for skinning a kitten litter. When his father heard, he received some more than a simple belting. But these rumours circulated so often, he stopped the punishments for a period. As if giving up. Skinner learned to be calmer then, and found more ways to avoid discovery. He also lied his way out of anything he could.

One day Skinner’s mother came back with tears. She said it had been weeping, and weeping, and when it shrieked in pain she knew it was their banshae. The man slapped her, telling her to cease the hysterics. She had made them all nervous for a moment, and Skinner was also filled with annoyance and resentment. She’d always spoil any normal day. He pushed past her in anger, heading to his friends. Now his father burdened himself with a madwoman. But her delusions came true. His father fell that same night with a sickness heavy as the plagues. He hadn’t long to live, when only two days past he was hammering and pumping his metalwork.

The blacksmith died in feverish discomfort. By the morning he was cold as the winter springs, and Skinner had to take over. Two friends of his father’s hired him for some parts out of pity, and his business wasn’t boding well after. His mother had to go out selling leather belts and sheaths, though those were also soon cut short after wintertime. For the first time Skinner realised she was slightly taken with the weathers and sun. He couldn’t have her become the hag begging with withering snowdrops in her basket. He could not possibly upkeep the shop either. Next morning,he knew he should head for work inside the castle halls. Like the other boys, he would learn to use the spear or anything really; and serve as one of Lord Bolton’s men.

He found himself with a stable little party someday, and he had since patched all his differences with that, now slightly towering Damon. They frequented in playing with dice and went on hunts. Just birds and rabbits. Skinner found he grew up. He shared many interests with the other youth. He never liked playing with girls before, they were not made for sudden, hard games. Now they were pretty to look at; long hair, curves and big eyes. There was one little serving maid, who eyed him a lot during their time of rest. In her green dress, she reminded him of bare feet in the wet grass, and beauty. Her looks were not of note, though it was close to it. She let him on plenty of things, in an empty room and behind some trees away from the main gardens. That was the first. He found after, they were easier to agree with persuasion and force, rather than have them bat a lash his way. Some girls even encouraged him to. He liked them blonde, thin lipped and open.

After showing himself bold and solid, they appointed him on an important guarding for one night. His shift was for young lord Domeric, who had come back from the Redfort. The contentment rode his chest well. Skinner had been placed with another boy, not very certain of his name. He had never asked. They never saw the lordling, but could hear the notes of the harp being strummed time an again. Lord Bolton took odd notice of him the morning after. He said he looked healthy, though he was not certain it meant a good thing. Lord Bolton was ever a man hard to interpret.

One time he saw a boy around the halls. He was accompanied by a man almost grovelling behind him. The boy couldn’t have been much younger than Skinner. Five years at most, two years at least. He was too far away to tell. They only passed his sight for a fair moment. He spotted him once more walking down the yards with what must have been lord Domeric. If this be the bastard son with the midnight hair they all heard of; perhaps he could bring a closer eye someday.

The boy looked weighty, and at times he was even more commanding than the legitimate lordling. Damon said the boy insisted on being called lord, although he permitted Damon to call him Ramsay on occasion. They seemed to be closer in age, so it was no surprise he took a shine to the big bugger. When he had his day away from duty, Snow approached them. He must’ve noticed the sounds and followed, assuming they were headed to the forest. They had been so. Skinner was immensely curious about this Ramsay, and he seemed keen to talk of his father and his mother, though there was no mention of any mill. The servant who accompanied him in usual circumstances was for then absent, though he had seen him many a time, only below high stairs.

Ramsay had brought them into a new domain, a place where there was more control that he could’ve ever wanted for himself. He was cautious at first; knowing the trouble he could land in if they were found. Lord Roose however; he soon pulled him aside. He saw how close they were becoming and looked to summon each in private. He was not a man of many words. It seemed he only seeks understanding. Brusquely, he talked in almost riddles Skinner struggled to decipher. But eventually it was all clear as day. He had himself in the dungeons in no time, using his skill and spending a reckless few moments, fighting his senses out.

There were days of the year as well as month he was permitted to return home. He had heard his mother was seeking to re-marry. She was no nan, by no god a young maid either. The one reason someone would wish to join houses with a matured widow would be the land and materials his father had left her. Skinner was furious, not to tell for much. 

The soup pot was running, bubbling up in brimming heat. Her yellow hair almost removed from view, by her head sash. She was aware Skinner was back, while never looking up from her peeling. The side of her face looked fatigued. Before she could greet her soldier son, he assaulted the air with his searing words. “So marrying without telling the son eh,” he was gravely considering throwing the steaming pot in broil unto himself. 

She jolted up a bit, looking up at the grown boy, holding a bitter face. “Skinner, you know how things are, no-one will care for poor mother when you find a bonnie lass to wed. I shan’t be a crone at a spinning wheel when you and your family struggle to raise-” He gripped her arm rudely and knocked the soup over during the action. She was burnt a little, and now fearful as well. “Skinner, mitting-” she only called him that as a child. He was different now. He could make his decisions, for his family.

“You’re mine.” He stated. “I am the man of the house, and you better do what you are told. I’m not having my mother parade herself; not very unlike a prized goat.” He attempted to be cold, yet there was ire in his spit. Skinner recalled many years ago; he had demanded she marry him, when he grew big, strong and healthy. He thought of that often. She laughed then, and he was laughing now. She seemed to understand. Mothers always have strong instinct when it be for their child. “Skinner, I’m your mother. You’re not that little babe that crawled onto my skirts when he needed touch.” 

He didn’t want her leaving. It was all wrong, but he was wrong also. He could not make her stop, he realised. Once he left for the walls at Dreadfort, she could follow every and any motion she came to illusion herself into. With one large hand he covered her mouth. If she left him for another there would be nothing left for Skinner. Her eyes panicked in frantic bulging. He shed her golden tresses and wrapped them around her neck. Her hands were brought up to recover her breathing. Nothing could pry him off. She kicked and threshed, using her elbows, but it enraged him to become steel. He was too strong, his grip too tight. He saw her growing a red then purple, a blue he’d seen on lynches. It spread like it was assuring him. Trying to comfort his falling apart.

All there was after was a softness. He stared blankly at the wall; he was ruined. Although he was fixed.

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write on the boys for so long, but the vision, it's only somewhat cleared up to me now. I'm planning to make this into a tiny series, dumping in whatever 'barely-character' curses my head.
> 
> Yes, nothing's more adorable than mommy issues.
> 
> What have I done.


End file.
